


Demons Run

by Scout924



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Canon, Avenger Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Fluff, Fluff dressed in sheep's clothing, Getting Together, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Protective Bucky Barnes, Shy Bucky Barnes, The Avengers Are Good Bros, no cryo for Bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-03-02 02:46:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13308783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scout924/pseuds/Scout924
Summary: "It won’t take long for me to prove to you that the Abominable Snowman is not fit to be running around with ten guns strapped to his back, or whatever the hell he does for fun."In which Steve thinks it’s high time Bucky became an Avenger. Nobody told Bucky how much of a reckless idiot Captain America would be along the way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "When a Good Man Goes to War" from Doctor Who, S6E7.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I had a plan of where this was going, and the longer it sat here the more I grew to hate it. SO I scratched what I had and rewrote the whole thing! I have almost half of it written now, and plan to update each Friday, so there's no turning back at this point.  
> I think this is proof that I need a beta. Any takers?

He knows it will go down like a spoonful of cod liver oil, but it's Steve, so he just lays it out on the table. 

“I wanted to discuss bringing Bucky along for the next mission.”

The room is deathly quiet, until Tony finishes his glass to emit a large groan from the other end of the table. Steve looks around to his friends, and finds Natasha unsuccessfully hiding a smile behind her hand. She elbows Sam, who pointedly looks away before taking an obscene bite of chicken, his cheeks blown out like a chipmunk’s and his eyebrows at his hairline.

The Avengers have all gathered at Stark Tower for one of their regular meetings, and even Thor is present. Mjölnir sits in the middle of the table, like an odd centerpiece. The team is discussing a small mission to gather more intel and quietly shut down a weapons manufacturer feeding into HYDRA that Natasha has been keeping an eye on. Steve thinks it’s the perfect opportunity to get Bucky back on the right side of the fight, to give him more purpose than making it to his therapy sessions and sparring with Steve in the basement. He knows these walls are closing in on him, sees the caged look in his eye when he catches him gazing out the window.

Bucky has been living with Steve in Stark Tower for over six months now, part of their truce with Tony. Steve agreed to rejoin the Avengers and fight alongside them as needed, if Bucky was allowed amnesty and a safe place to stay. Tony insisted they stay in the Tower, if only that he could keep an eye on the Winter Soldier, an agreement which almost started another Civil War itself. Steve reluctantly agreed once Pepper arranged that they be protected from the government and Bucky be provided the care he needed to start recovering. It was a shaky accord, but Steve felt better finding some sort of balance between Bucky and his friends that had helped him along the way.

“He’s doing better,” Steve parrots now, a phrase he bleats to everyone, including his Stark-appointed therapist on Monday’s.

“I’m sure he is, Cap,” Tony says, an edge of sweetness to his smile that makes Steve’s blood boil. “He’s house-trained, but not ready to take out to the dog park yet.”

“Stark,” Natasha warns lowly, as Steve’s fingers grip the granite table hard enough to break  a chunk off in his hands.

“Look, I know he’s not the most popular guy on the block right now, and for good reason,” Steve starts, letting out a deep breath through his nose. “But he’s caged in here, Tony. You can’t just lock people up in your castle.” He risks a glance to Wanda, who gives him a small smile.

“Sure I can,” Tony sets his highball glass down with a loud _clink_. “My tower, my toys. My locks. As a matter of fact, I’m the only reason you and Barnes aren’t rotting in federal prison right now, so I can keep him caged like a white tiger if I want to.” He leans back in his chair, eyes a little wild. Steve’s seen that look all too often lately. Heat burns at his temples.

Bruce Banner gives Tony a look full of gravity, and the two stare each other down until Tony lets out a heavy breath, going back to the half empty bottle in front of him.

“Look, Cap, that was out of line. What I’m trying to say is, I don’t think Barnes is ready to be out on the front lines again. I know he’s playing nice with you, takes his M&Ms like he’s supposed, but I’m not betting one of our lives on him.”

“You’re afraid he’ll snap,” Steve’s voice is low, cold.

“Quite frankly, fuck yeah I am. I’m sure I’m not the only one here who feels the same, though they’re too _cowardly_ to admit it to you,” Tony sneers at the other Avengers, who remain uncharacteristically quiet these days when Tony and Steve bicker. He supposes they’re shell-shocked too. Luckily, Steve has never been one to back down from a fight.

“Well if he does, it’s because he’s gone stir-crazy cooped up all day. He’s restless, Tony. Even you get antsy when you haven’t blown something up in awhile. He’s spent the majority of his life fighting. Then I drag him here and the only sunlight he sees is through a double-paned, bullet proof glass window. What do you think that does for his mental state?”

“I can always replace the glass, if you’re feeling froggy.”

“Tony---!”

“What do I think it does to his mental state? I don’t know, Rogers. I’m not a shrink. Maybe you should ask the one I’m paying handsomely for. In the meantime, pay more attention to the fact that you’re asking me to bring the world’s deadliest assassin, five months sober, to watch my six.”

“I was going to suggest that he run a covert op with me, watch my back. We get in, eliminate the target, get out. Nobody on the team at risk.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Clint speaks up. “Barnes used to be a sniper, right? I could use some help covering your reckless ass, Cap.”

“Thanks, Barton,” Steve replies, a genuine smile on his face.

“Seriously?” Tony hisses, narrowing his eyes at Clint, who just gives him an angelic smile in return. “This isn’t up for debate.”

“Why not?” Steve rises from his seat, getting his second wind. “This isn’t a dictatorship. Least I hope not. I got my shield for fighting Nazis, after all,” he throws a golden boy smile at Tony. “So let’s vote.”

“It is only fair!” Thor booms suddenly, hitting the table with his fist and scattering Sam’s bag of M&Ms, who frowns over at the large Asgardian.

Tony glances around the table, a little flabbergasted. “You know what, fine. Leave it to Uncle Sam to remind me that this is a democracy, but it won’t take long for me to prove to you that the Abominable Snowman is not fit to be running around with ten guns strapped to his back, or whatever the hell he does for fun.” Tony stands from his seat, smoothing the wrinkles out of his suit jacket.

“Rhodey, you’re practically a shoe-in, let’s start with you first. Don’t let me down.”

 

An hour of lively debate, some thrown M&Ms, and an empty bottle of Tony’s best vodka later, Steve’s chances are looking pretty good.

Clint, Wanda, and Bruce believed that Bucky deserved a second chance, as they had all experienced committing acts of violence against their better judgment and had been forgiven despite it.

Rhodes and Vision agreed with Tony, providing clinical evidence that given Bucky’s seventy-odd years of brainwashing, he may never be ready to go back into battle, even if he was following Steve.

Tony merely groaned as he glanced over at a grinning Thor, griping that “he loves everyone, and his vote should not count. And don’t tell us a story that parallels this one, I don’t feel like crying today.”

Natasha, surprising everyone, sides with Steve, her explanation low and clipped.

“You’re asking if I think a trained assassin, brainwashed against his will to operate kill orders for the rest of his days should be given a chance to do something good with what he has left..” She levels Tony with a stare from the other end of the table and goes back to cleaning her knife.

Tony turns to Peter Parker, who’s been watching this long exchange like a frightened kitten watches a dog fight.

Peter startles a little. “I-I get a vote?”

Everyone at the table looks at him, and Bruce smirks at him fondly.

“Spiderman! You are one of us!’ Thor says, grinning broadly and gesturing to the group. “You are an Avenger! Your opinion is of highest importance here.”

Peter’s cheeks pink, and he eyes Tony.

“Hell yeah, man. Thor’s right, you’re on the team. Wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. You’re a superhero. Tell us what you think, Spidey.”

“What do I think? Well, uh,” he begins, wringing his hands. “I think Barnes is great. He spotted me at the gym a couple times, helped me with my history essay last week, we even sparred together once, though he kicked my ass without my webs, plus I mean he’s freakin’ legend, because he’s a supersoldier but also--” He runs on, only stopping as he eyes Tony again, who’s reassuring grin is slowly turning toward his chin.

“But..uh...sorry Cap, I gotta side with Tony on this one. I think Barnes is awesome, but Mr. Stark is kind of the reason I’m here and I _love_ being here so...no?” He says, shoulders rising up to his ears.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Queens,” he retorts, wishing Bucky were here to scoff with him.

The last member to say his piece is Sam, who sits in his usual seat to Steve’s right. Steve looks over at him, swelling with pride because he has complete trust that Sam will follow him into this like he always has: taking down S.H.I.E.L.D, at risk of being captured by the Federal Government, hell, even going to find Bucky.

“You don’t want to hear this, but I gotta side with Stark this time, Steve. I don’t think he’s ready. I think you want him to be, but he’s not safe, man. He needs more time.” He delivers the blow head on, holding Steve’s gaze, man-to-man, and it bruises Steve so much he feels like he’s been boxed in the head. Dazed, he masks the hurt expression on his face and turns back to Tony.

“If you and I both get a vote, that’s still six for, five against.” He crosses his arms over his chest.

Much to Steve’s confusion, Tony looks tired as he drags a hand through his hair and responds.“Steve, I know he’s your friend. You know him, you fought beside him, you trust him implicitly. You’d die for him. But he’s killed an indeterminate number of people without batting an eye. I don’t want his hands on anything I--” Tony’s bites the sentence off, looks at the lone ice cube left in his glass. “I don’t want him fighting with us. Period. End of discussion.”

“We agreed to come here to let Bucky recover and so that I could continue to _lead the Avengers_ , and to work toward a common goal.” Steve says, leaning across the table now and digging in his heels. “I didn’t agree to let you poke Bucky under a microscope until you’ve considered him fixed.”

Tony clasps his hands in front of him, oddly quiet and withdrawn. He sucks in a heavy breath, the silence a heavy blanket over the room before he speaks. “It’s bad enough I have him in my house,” he begins lowly, “but that’s not good enough for you, is it, Cap?” His eyes, cold as stone, bore into Steve.

“What’s next, you want me to make him an Avenger? Vote him on the team? It’s not enough that I overlook his war crimes, hide him from the Feds, or the fact that he _murdered my parents in cold blood?”_

 

“I know I’m not an Avenger, but am I allowed to say something?”

Steve whips around, and there stands Bucky, emerging from the darkness of the stairwell. Steve’s stomach churns, he has no idea how much Bucky has heard, but Tony’s last remark was enough to cut him to the core. Bucky steps closer to the table, his head ducked slightly and his dark hair tucked behind his ears. He’s dressed in a pair of black jogging pants and a dark grey T-shirt, his usual attire of monochrome colors when wearing civilian clothes. Steve doesn’t miss a thick pair of dark socks on Bucky’s feet that he knows came from Steve’s own drawer.

Bucky’s blue eyes are wary as he steps under the bright lights over the table, but his stubborn chin is strong and firm. Steve knows this is the first time he’s ever been in the Avengers’ meeting room, let alone on this floor, and he can practically feel the anxiety coming off him in waves: the clench in his jaw, the way he scratches at his right thigh. The slight tremor of his lips.

Tony stills at the head of the table, eyes puncturing his houseguest.

“Why not, Barnes. We _are_ talking about you, after all. And I’ve heard my fair share of bullshit today, so why don’t you throw yours in while we’re at it. Pull up a seat.” He slaps his hand down on the table at the empty place to his right.

Bucky smoothly tucks his hands behind him, coming to stand just behind Steve. He licks his lips, and his voice is low rumble. “I’m good here, thanks. I’m sorry to have, ah...listened in on your conversation. I know I’m not welcome to make decisions, but I knew Steve would bring this up, and I had to say my piece.”

Tony rolls his eyes and brings his glass to his lips, propping his feet up in the seat Bucky turned down. Steve misses the imperceptible tremor of his fingers.

“I appreciate what you had to say, whether you agreed with Steve or not. I haven’t been here long, but everyone has been...kind to me,” he pauses, swallowing, his eyes darting around the room as he presses his lips together, a reserved smile. “Tony, your hospitality has been...more than generous. Thank you,” he says pointedly, eyebrows raised, “for letting me stay here. It’s more than I deserve.”

Steve ignores Tony’s harsh bark of laughter and narrows his eyes. He knows Bucky’s up to something. He can tell he’s rehearsed these lines, knows that he would have had to practice to stay calm and collected in front of this many people. This is the most he’s heard Bucky speak to anyone other than himself since they moved into the Tower six months ago. His stomach clenches with nerves.

“I know several of you said you wouldn’t be comfortable having me run missions with your team,” his eyes are on Tony as he speaks.

“And I couldn’t agree more. I don’t think anyone should be forced to fight alongside someone they don’t trust.” His gaze, dark blue now, a storm brewing over seawater, finds Steve’s. “It can poison the bond of the team, which is something I think you’ve all worked hard to build. I shouldn’t have a hand in it. I don’t want to destroy anything else. I won’t come on a mission, regardless of your decision.”

“But Buck--” Steve starts, pushing up from the chair, face to face with his best friend.

“I’ve said my piece,” he looks at Steve, face carefully blank, but Steve can read the slight pleading in his eyes. “I know you’re just looking out for me, pal, but I’m not ready for this.” His voice is barely a whisper, and he turns away before Steve can retort. He watches Bucky slip out of the room, his hair and clothing blend into the dark hallway as he goes.

The table is dead silent again, a bemused expression on Tony’s face. Bruce looks forlorn, his dark eyebrows knitted in thought. Steve looks to Natasha, who stares back and gives him a little shrug. Sam lets out a heavy sigh to his right, like he’s been holding his breath. He should have seen this coming.

“Wish he’d butted in sooner, would have saved me a lot of headache splitting up the team again,” Tony mutters.

Steve takes his better judgment and gets up from the table before he starts another war over Bucky.

 

He takes the long route to their apartment, whether it’s to give Bucky space or to take some for himself, he’s not sure. They share an entire floor, which has so much space for just the two of them that it’s overwhelming. When they first came to Stark Tower, the two men prowled the floor constantly, a silent agreement that one would stay up and keep watch while the other slept on the couch. Steve was familiar with the Tower, but there were so many rooms, dark and looming hallways, that he felt the uneasiness reflected in Bucky’s eyes.

Things were better now, Bucky agreed to see a Stark-appointed therapist, if Steve guarded the door. He ate three square meals a day, though he refused to eat prepared food from Tony’s chefs; he and Steve cooked their meals in the lavish kitchenette on their floor.

He had some semblance of a sleep schedule, even though Steve could hear him pacing the floors at night, or hear his choked off scream from an interrupted nightmare. Some nights, he could even hear the almost imperceptible sound of Bucky perching outside Steve’s bedroom door, like a sentinel. Those nights, Steve would lie awake in his bed, praying Bucky would just reach up and open his door.

He’d promised himself he wouldn’t touch Bucky, wouldn’t make him uncomfortable, but if he could just have him nearby, talk him down from the nightmares and dissonance, he knew he’d get more sleep.

But for now, every time he’s tried to reach out, Bucky only retreated farther. He’d school his features carefully blank, telling him he was up getting water, or stretching out a cramp, not to worry and go back to sleep, Stevie.

Eventually, exhaustion would overtake him, and Steve would find Bucky sleeping in various places about the Tower. Just yesterday, he frantically combed the building for hours when Bucky was nowhere to be found, until JARVIS informed him to check the roof. Heart in his throat, he burst through the roof access and found Bucky tucked against a concrete pillar, mouth open and snoring lightly.

 

When he finally gets back to their floor and unlocks the door, Bucky is curled in the corner of the living area, tucked under a window and pressed against the radiator, a new age model that Tony made just for their room to resemble the metal ones from their decade.

“I know you’re pissed at me for that.”

“Nah, I’m actually not, Buck. I was just thinking that I’m real proud of you,” Steve crouches down several feet away from where Bucky sits, keeping a careful distance.

He raises an eyebrow in response.

“I know it took a lot out of you to come up there and say all that in front of people you don’t know.”

“Don’t antagonize me, Steve. I see my therapist on Thursdays.”

Steve smirks, hands rubbing his knees. “I’m serious. That can’t have been easy.”

Bucky only collects his knees to his chin and shrugs his shoulders.

“I practiced in the mirror a coupla times,” he mumbles.

Steve lets out a chuckle. “Wish you’d have told me, I’d have loved to see it. And to know that you felt that way.” He looks up as Bucky’s eyes dart away, dark and brooding. His full lips are pursed in a little pout. “If you weren’t ready, you should have told me, Buck.”

“It’s just--It ain’t that. Steve I, Steve it’s not fair to them. Yeah, I wanna go, would be nice to give it a shot, but we’re pushing our luck here as it is and...I want to get out---but they’re right.”

“Tony said that, half of them agree with me.”

“Because they like you, Steve. And because they feel sorry for me.” He stares ahead, brow furrowed. “Which they shouldn’t. Tony should have turned me in...you could be here by yourself...still be hanging around with them and I would--He wouldn’t have to house a killer--”

“Buck,” Steve scoots across the wood floor to get closer when he sees Bucky spiralling. “None of that matters. The point is, I don’t want to be here by myself. I don’t wanna fight anymore fights without you. I asked for this. And this is what you deserve. You’re safe here.”

Before he can stop himself, he has a hand on Bucky’s metal forearm, and Bucky’s gaze darts over to the hand, eyes wide.

Once Steve realizes what he’s done, he snatches his hand back as if burned.  “I--I’m sorry, Bucky. I didn’t mean to…”

Steve has been careful to stop himself from touching Bucky since they moved into Stark Towers. His therapist told him it would be best to reintegrate touch when Bucky was ready, letting him come to Steve in his own time.

But having Bucky alive, warm and real and _alive_ , in front of him every day, it’s all he can do not to cling to Bucky’s leg like a petulant child. He’s touched him, sure, handing him the orange juice in the morning, sparring every afternoon.

But it feels normal to touch him like this, to reach out and place his hand on his best friend’s arm in comfort.

Bucky’s quiet for a few moments, gaze straight ahead and glazed over. Steve slides away, pads into the kitchen to leave Bucky alone, chest clenched with worry that he’s only made his anxiety worse.

“I’m sorry I didn’t...I’m sorry I don’t talk to you enough. About the hard stuff.” Bucky’s appeared at Steve’s shoulder so quietly he hadn’t even heard him get up from the floor.

“I’m just...confused,” Steve turns to face him, takes in the raw pain in Bucky’s eyes and forces his hands to stay at his sides.

“I want to...I want to talk to you. I want to ask for help. I know who you are,” he gives a little nod, blue eyes cutting Steve to the core.

“But it just...it just hurts, Stevie.” His voice catches, the noise like a bullet in Steve’s gut. No tears fall, no moisture is gathered at his eyes, but that’s even worse. He crumples, face contorting, and Steve doesn’t have it in him to test the waters before he pulls Bucky into his arms.

“It’s all blurry,” he mumbles into Steve’s neck. “Like a fever. And I don’t know which one I’m supposed to choose. Which one I’m supposed to be. I don’t know if I’m remembering right or if...if it’s all just a trick.”

Steve sucks in a breath. “I know, Buck. Sometimes I feel that way too. You know you can always--”

“A...and at night,” he continues quietly, voice just under Steve’s ear, “I want to come in, I really do, but I feel like...like I’ll infect you. Like if I see you during a flashback,” he gulps, a truly fearful sound, a small child hiding in Steve’s arms from the boogey man. “I--I’m afraid I’ll think you aren’t real too. That the next time I see you...I’ll think I made you up. And I can’t do that. Can’t risk it.”

He pulls his face away, his breaths coming in heaves, cheeks ruddy with emotion.

Steve takes a deep breath and prays the right words to soothe Bucky will spill out of his mouth.

“I’m real, Buck. I’m not going anywhere. Right here with you, pal. This okay?” He whispers, rubbing his fingers over Bucky’s knuckles at his side. “Does this help?”

Bucky nods, eyes dropping shut.

“If you don’t remember where you are, remember this, okay? You want me to come bring you back, you close your eyes and knock on my door. Whatever you need, Buck, I’m right here. Got all the time in the world.”

He slips his hand up to Bucky’s shoulder, then along the line of his jaw, until finally his fingers curl up to brush Bucky’s cheekbone.

They stand like this, Steve’s left arm curled protectively around Bucky’s back, Bucky’s flesh and metal arms alike clutching at Steve’s teeshirt.

“I’ve been like this a long time, Stevie. Longer than I’ve been Bucky,” he says, once his breathing has steadied a little more, the sweat drying on his neck. “I ain’t the same guy,” he whispers, Brooklyn accent surprising them both as it creeps in. “I don’t wanna disappoint you if I come out different on the other side.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, chucks Bucky’s chin. “Sure ya are, you’re just some dumb kid from Brooklyn. Same as me. I’d know you anywhere.” His lips turn up at the corners when Bucky’s eyes flit from his mouth to meet his gaze again.

“And besides,” he whispers, leaning in like it’s a secret, “You couldn’t disappoint me if you tried.” His lips are inches from Bucky’s, and the thought crosses his mind that it would feel good, so satisfyingly good, to drag his lips across Bucky’s, to smooth the lines between his eyes and run his mouth over Bucky’s until it curled into a smirk again.

A moment passes, two, three, seven...they stand there, neither daring to move, until a blankness passes over Bucky’s blue eyes and a tremor rattles over his skin. He pulls his arms away from Steve, robotic, and drops them at his side, taking a few steps backwards.

“Thanks, Steve. I, uh, I better get to bed. See ya in the morning.” The door clicks shut before Steve realizes his hand is still in the air, stroking an imaginary cheek to keep the icy cold of disappointment at bay.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am overwhelmed by the amount of love I have gotten just from the first chapter. Thank you so much to everyone who has read, commented, bookmarked, subscribed, or left kudos!

The next day, Steve leaves with Natasha for Turkey. He’s gone before sun up, and leaves a note for Bucky on the counter next to the coffee pot, but Bucky hears him leave regardless. He’s been lying awake all night, resisting the urge to sit outside Steve’s bedroom door and maybe even muster up the courage to turn the knob and step in.

Steve’s been on missions since they’ve been at Stark Tower; he typically agrees to go once or twice a month. Bucky knows there’s no telling when he will be back, whenever the job is done, and he definitely isn’t going to risk going back to Tony Stark’s floor to ask about a mission.

 

* * *

 

 

The first night, he curls into the couch and watches Netflix, his current mission, until the pink rays of sunrise filter through the balcony door. On the second, his eyes are so heavy he can’t walk straight, and he runs into the door jamb on his way into his bedroom. Despite his exhaustion, sleep comes fitfully, dark, twisted nightmares that wake him to the sound of his own screams. His sheets are clammy and soaked in sweat as he pulls off his teeshirt and stands at his bedroom door, staring over at Steve’s empty bed across the hall. He grabs a pillow and takes his post, feeling sillier than usual. It’s not until the sun is streaming through the window that he gives up, tosses aside the pillow and crawls into Steve’s bed.  

The sheets are cool and clean, but he sleeps soundly with his face buried in the pillow of his runty best friend, his familiar smell enveloping Bucky like a warm blanket.

 

* * *

 

A week has passed, and Bucky has made enough desserts to feed all of Wakanda and punched through every weight bag in the gym, including a pallet of concrete blocks that he hopes were for training. Somewhere around the fourth day, he takes a sideswipe just a little too hard, and the plates behind his elbow stick. He rotates the arm, waiting to hear the plates whirr back into place, but they drag over one another, little sparks tingling up Bucky’s forearm.

He inspects himself in the mirror with a curse: his elbow up to the tricep is a tangle of metal. The arm rarely malfunctions and when it does, someone from---

Suddenly, the room is too cold, too dark, and Bucky feels sick with loneliness. Even on the bad days, Steve is hovering around somewhere, like a giant hot water bottle begging to pull him back into the light.

Bucky darts toward the elevator and punches the button.

 

It doesn’t occur to him that it’s two in the morning until he sees that the floor is dark, save for a light on in the kitchen over the sink. He perches onto a stool at the counter, slowly opening and closing his fingers. He’s trying to move each plate meticulously back into place so he can get the hell out of dodge.

An almost inaudible intake of breath brings Bucky’s eyes off the metal fingers and up to see Tony Stark, clad in a faded Black Sabbath teeshirt and his boxers. He’s holding another empty glass.

Bucky expects a rainbow of colorful profanities, but instead, Stark blinks, then casually opens several cabinets until he finds a bottle of clear liquid. He takes it to the counter across from Bucky, pouring an impressive amount. Before he can bring it to his lips, Bucky gathers his courage and sticks out the arm, fingers lax.

“I don’t know how to fix it myself.”

 

* * *

 

 

An hour has passed in the lab before Tony starts talking, and when he does, it’s mostly nonsense. He starts mumbling about connectors and fuses, wiring harnesses and cables, until Bucky shakes his head a bit and realizes Tony’s asked him a direct question.

“How’s your touch sensitivity on this thing? You feel heat?” A nod.

“Cold?” Nod.

“Pain?” That makes Bucky pause. He’s deflected bullets with the thing, landed a several story drop, swung himself onto buildings with a flick of the wrist. As the Soldier, he used the arm as a tool to detain the asset at the time. Pain wasn’t a part of his vocabulary.

So he shrugs.

He expects a smartass comment from Tony about his intelligence, but instead the man swallows and carefully turns back the control panel open just above Bucky’s wrist.

Tony drains clear liquid from his glass, chasing a piece of ice.

“You drink a lot.”

Tony looks up at him like he’s a petulant child. “Maybe it’s because I’m working so hard harboring international criminals.”

“The blonde lady must not like that.”

“The blonde lady’s name is Pepper,” Tony says evenly, an edge to his tone.

Bucky lets out a little hum. “Pepper. She’s nice. Haven’t seen her around in awhile.” He risks a glance in Tony’s direction.

“You keep your mouth shut about my vodka consumption, and I won’t tell Captain Underpants you’ve been sleeping in his bed every night.”

Bucky fights the urge to cut a Winter Soldier-worthy glare at Tony and lets his eyes drop shut instead.

“Speaking of, have you, uh, have you heard from Steve?”

Tony huffs out a soft laugh, snapping a plate into place at Bucky’s forearm. “You’re boyfriend’s fine, Father Russia. Romanov’ll bring him back in one piece.”

He gives Bucky’s arm an experimental rotation, the plates whirring together in a familiar pattern.

“FRIDAY, give me an update on Rogers and Romanov.”

“Yes, sir,” the musical voice responds. Bucky tries not to flinch at the sound. He should be used to the AI by now, but the thought of all-seeing eyes around him makes panic prickle under his skin.

“Target acquired and terminated,” FRIDAY reports over the speaker a few moments later. “Building compromised, no survivors. Will need medical care upon arrival. Multiple GSWs taken by Rogers, Steven Grant. ETA 0500 hours.”

Bucky’s slamming the control panel door shut, shoving exposed wires back beneath the metal before Tony can open his mouth. His movements feel jerky and mechanical, and the Soldier threatens to creep in as he thunders to his feet.

“Take me up there. _Now_.” He doesn't realize he's barking orders in Russian until FRIDAY's voice tinkles out a translation for a steely-eyed Tony. 

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky likes watching Steve sleep, because he looks so young and peaceful that it dredges up clearer memories of the days he misses the most, the ones that slip away from his mind like smoke through his fingers. In those days, Steve was small enough Bucky could gather him in his arms and carry him to bed when he was too weak to carry himself.

Thanks to his own supersoldier serum, he can still carry Steve, as he does now, his footsteps heavy and thudding despite the carpeted hallway leading to the elevator. He insisted, or more just glowered dangerously at Dr. Banner when he suggested letting Steve rest in the infirmary. Steve’s taken a bullet to the knee, one to the thigh, and one that left a deep graze along his side. The thigh shot was dangerously close to his femoral artery, and Natasha was covered in blood by the time they arrived back at the Tower. Her eyes were wild, looking as if she’d emerged from a Stephen King novel. 

“You want a reason to tag along?” Suddenly Natasha was snarling in his face, flinging droplets of Steve’s blood. It spattered on the polished floor, the white walls, on the gleaming metal of Bucky's arm. She points toward the swinging doors that had just swallowed Steve up, the medical team wheeling him away to places Bucky is not allowed to follow.

“There’s your fucking reason. He goes running in there, no cover but that damn shield, like he’s made of metal. I can’t do it all by myself, you know.” She gestured to her blood-soaked catsuit, dancing along the edge of hysteria. He sees it in her bottomless blue eyes, the imperceptible twitch of her brow gives her away to only Bucky.

“You’re scared of yourself, _Soldat,_ but you better be scared for _him.”_ She'd turned to go down the hallway, stopping momentarily to add the crushing blow.

“I can’t stop him from being reckless, but you can. You may be the only one he cares about, but you’re not the only one who loves him,” she hisses, eyes cold. “сейчас неплохо играть хорошо, солдат.”

Then she'd left him alone in the hallway, bloody footprints following her out.

 

Bucky's head buzzes now as he rides down the elevator, Steve clutched in his arms. Tunnel vision leading him to their door, the adrenaline slowly making it's downward spiral in his veins. He takes deep breaths, hearing Steve’s gentle voice counting them, even if it's only in his head. Steve is sedated, his face calm and cheek tucked into Bucky’s chest, like he’s nuzzled there in his unconscious state. Bucky eyes comb over the bandages, ones on his leg, wrapped around his ribs, his bicep, the butterflies on his cheek. He knows Steve will be back sparring with Bucky again in two days, tops, but now he only sees red, sees Natasha’s bloody hands behind his eyelids. No matter how super Steve’s serum is, blood loss could put him six feet under and make sure he never comes back again.

Bucky pushes on the bedroom door and lays Steve gently down, pointedly ignoring the unmade bed that Steve would notice were he awake to see it.

He wets a rag with warm water and wipes down Steve's body around the bandages in long, gentle strokes. Steve smells of antiseptic and iodine, and Bucky knows how uneasy the smell makes him feel, how it would be jarring to wake up to. He tucks the soft cotton comforter around the man and pulls over Steve's right hand to cradle it in his own, running the rag over each finger in an attempt to remove the blood that’s stained his palms.

Satisfied, Bucky runs lithe fingers over his wrists, the thick muscle on his forearms, down the divot in the bend of his elbow, and up over the round curve of his bicep. He’s never had the time to marvel at Steve’s new body, though he knows he’s wanted to, but chased the feeling away with embarrassment, blaming it on the fucked up state of his head. But Steve’s so different, chest swollen upward where it used to cave in at his clavicle, wrists big enough Bucky almost can’t wrap his fingers around them. He reaches a tentative hand up to brush Steve’s cheek. His face is still the same, handsome as ever.

He’s interrupted by the sound of lips parting, dry from anesthesia, and a slow rush of breath. Bucky jerks his hand away immediately, and looks up to Steve’s sleepy blue eyes. He feels a little light-headed at the tidal wave of emotion that passes over him.

“Heya, punk.” Bucky places a hand on Steve’s shoulder, thumb gently rubbing the skin.

Steve opens his mouth, but doesn’t say anything, wanting to speak, but to weak to do so. He gives Bucky a slow, sleepy smile, and suddenly it’s all Bucky can do to not burst into tears, an emotion he is completely unfamiliar with, because it’s _Steve_ , his Stevie. The skinny boy brushing off Bucky’s worried hands years ago and the muscled man wrapped in white bandages now: they’re the same person. The same reckless, bleeding heart, the same spit-fire tongue, wise beyond his years and so loyal, so achingly loyal that it breaks Bucky’s old leathered heart in two. This whole time since he’s been back with Steve he’s wondered how he could feel present in this life, how he could be Bucky again without feeling the Winter Soldier bleed through like a double exposed photo, but _this is it_. He feels an urgency now, the emotion so present and raw that it pushes all the soggy, itchy memories of the past to the back burner and demands to be addressed _now._

Steve, reckless Steve Rogers is broken in front of him. Bucky feels the need to be the Sentinel stronger than ever before. 

This knowledge, this gut-feeling of knowing his place, feels like it’s always been there, like a puzzle piece he dropped behind the couch and found ten years later. The blurred lines become sharper, colors a little brighter, his body weightless, like it’s the first day of summer.

And Steve opens his eyes again and says, “Hey yourself, Buck.”

* * *

 

Bucky watches Steve doze on and off until his own head hits the mattress. He wakes, neck stiff and sore, to Steve’s cool palm on his flesh arm.

“C’mere,” he says, voice rough with sleep. He pulls on Bucky gently and pats the empty side of the bed. “S’no use’n you sleepin’ on the floor.”

Bucky comes to his senses, this newfound feeling of sharpness zeroing in on Steve’s situation. “Nah, Stevie. I'm good right here.” He rolls onto the balls of his feet, crouching at Steve’s level. .

Steve lets his gaze drop, and he rubs his cheek against the pillow before looking back up at Bucky through his lashes. Like a damn dame.

And despite his best intentions, Bucky toes off his shoes without a word and silently pads around the bed, sliding under the quilt beside his best friend like he always has. Seventy years of HYDRA and Cryo still haven't removed his soft spot for Steve Roger's baby blues. 

“You okay? Need anything? Are...are you comfortable?” Bucky frets, worried eyes moving up and down Steve’s exposed skin.

“Need ya to quit mothering me and go to sleep,” he mumbles thickly, and Bucky just smirks, lying down on his back and staring up at the ceiling to pull his eyes away from Steve’s full lips slurring his words.

“Don’t act like you don’t wanna sleep with me, Buck, you’ve been in here all week.”

His eyes shoot open and he refuses not look over now. Bucky doesn’t know whether to be embarrassed by the fact that he’s been caught or by the implication Steve is making.

“Is that so, pal? Sounds like they gave ya a little too much laughing gas.” Bucky responds lightly.

“Yeah. The sheets smells like you, Buck. Even my pillow.”

Bucky swallows thickly, eyes still glued to the ceiling. He jumps when Steve lightly elbows him in the side. Bucky feels his long fingers run down the metal forearm and slot their fingers together, curling them up to hold his hand.

“Told ya you’d sleep better in here anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian Translation of Natasha’s comment: “Playing nice isn’t going to cut it anymore, Soldier.”  
> I have absolutely no concept of Russian, and the Russian above is practically Google-translated. Please feel free to correct me in any way.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's a lost cause, and Sam is a troll. Who learns words and phrases in Russian from Natasha.  
> Or maybe he Google Translates it. I hear some people do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. It's been awhile. I have a whole plan for this thing, and ideally it should be posted before Infinity War ruins all our storylines. But writer's block ain't no joke, you guys. So I'm churning it out as much as I can. 
> 
> Also, домохозяйка means housewife, at least in my sad American translation attempts. Feel free to correct me as needed.

Bucky locks all the doors and puts on his grumpiest face to keep Steve off his feet and in bed. There’s a lot of growling and mumbled threats involved, but his efforts are successful for the most part. He convinces Steve, who is somehow wormier and whinier about staying in bed than he was at 90 pounds, that he’s exhausted and that they should catch up on rest together.

But Bucky doesn’t sleep so much as experiment in touch: pressing as much as of his body as he can stand against Steve’s warm side before his thoughts start to blur together and he has to roll away. Steve must not notice, because he dozes idly and keeps a firm hold on Bucky’s hand.

Steve tosses and turns as night falls, achy and feverish and mid-healing. Bucky brings cool rags and chamomile tea and strokes the back of his clammy hand, feeling more like the Sentinel now than ever before. He doesn’t know which pains him more: carrying Steve’s bloodied body or watching him writhe in uncomfortable pain that he cannot control. He tests bringing his lips to Steve’s knuckles while he sleeps, and notices his restlessness seems to subside, if only for a little while.

* * *

Steve is sleeping soundly at dawn when Bucky crawls carefully from the bed to make coffee. His head is still fuzzy from spending a good part of the night tossed about in the sea of Steve’s troubled sleep. He can still keep an eye on Steve from his place in the kitchen, sipping the strong black liquid and wrapping his brain around how physically close he’d let himself get to Steve. And yet, the Winter Soldier was silent beneath his skin.

Some time later, Bucky’s experimenting with a recipe for soup that he recalls from memory, yet has no name, time period, or attachment to the details of how he obtained it. Though it comes from his own mind, he’s examining the details of it like a detective, trying to place which country the dish hails from. Vegetable skins and opened spice containers litter the countertop when a knock at the door cuts through his silent reverie. Much to his dismay, Wilson’s gap-toothed grin beams at him from the other side of the door. Bucky merely blinks at him.

He finds the Winter Soldier’s most menacing glare washing over his face as he motions for Wilson to be quiet, only to have a frilly apron thrown in his face as the man slides past him and hops onto their kitchen counter, calling him a “домохозяйка” in poorly garbled Russian.

Bucky mumbles some choice words about his mother in return, in a language Wilson is sure to not understand.

Then finally, in a dramatic whisper. “So how is he?”

Bucky grunts and goes back to his roux.

“Still sleeping?”

Bucky busies himself carefully dicing green peppers with a large knife he pulls from the collar of his shirt.

“Can I go see him?”

He lets the simmering food drown out Wilson’s words as he deglazes the pan with red wine.

A soft pop and Wilson is sticking a tupperware container of homemade cookies under his nose, wiggling it enticingly.

“C’mon, man. My Mama’s recipe. They’re chocolate chip…”

Bucky directs a sharp, unimpressed eye to the cookies, all various sizes and shades of brown, their little crispy edges smiling up at him.

“Okay, okay, so my mama made them. She loves Steve. Now can I see him?”

Bucky snatches a cookie and shoves it into his mouth, rolling his eyes and shoving Wilson off his kitchen counter before he changes his mind. They are pretty good cookies, after all.

* * *

 

“He does this,” Steve reassures Wilson, and Bucky, who has unfortunately been obligated to play housewife after all. He’s served Steve and their unwelcome guest some of his mystery stew and now watches their interaction from his perch in the corner of Steve’s bedroom. The Winter Soldier hums in agitation just behind his temples.

“Tony locks himself in his room to pout, plays with his toys, comes out ready to save the world. Just let him stew.”

“I hope you’re right, because Nat is like a feral cat upstairs, pacing all damn day. I’m surprised she hasn’t been climbing the walls or rappelling off the building. I’m sending her down here next so you can deal with her.”

Bucky conjures images of a blood-soaked Natasha, high-school revenge in her eyes. He shudders. “No!”

That gets some attention from the peanut gallery, and both heads swivel in his direction. Steve’s eyebrows crinkle in concern, and Wilson’s face pinches in poorly concealed mirth, his eyes twinkling with glee.

“I mean, you need more rest, Stevie. Really shouldn’t be entertaining visitors,” he sneers at Wilson.

Steve gives him a fond smile in return. “Don’t sweat it, Buck. I’m good as new, honest.” As if to prove a point, he stretches his arms over his head, triceps bulging as he leans back into the pillows propping him in a seated position on the bed. His chest is bare, and Bucky’s removed the bandages from his rib cage, the minor cuts and bruises fading into new, pale skin. Bucky wants to chase each one away with his mouth, but the thought makes his hands shake with both fear and desire.

His eyes follow down the perfect curves of Steve’s pecs, the rosy flush of his fever curling down between them, stopping just above his diaphragm. He scratches his chest idly, moving a hand under the covers as he tests the wounded muscles of his knee and thigh.

Bucky’s throat goes dry, and he’d just as soon feed Wilson and his know-it-all smirk to the wolves as spare him a glance right now. Not when he’s busy undressing Steve with his filthy, fucked up mind.

But then Steve hits a sore spot, probably in the thigh, and lets out the tiniest of winces, sending Bucky catapolting to the edge of the bed, huffing and tutting in his gruff voice, gravelly with disuse. He runs a hand through his overlong hair and tucks Steve back in as Wilson snickers and remarks, “домохозяйка.”

Hell, if Bucky can turn in his Winter Soldier days to be Steve’s housewife, then somebody better hand him that frilly apron, damnit.

* * *

Tony makes his entrance a few days later, turning up at their door. He looks a little crazed, hair unwashed and clothes disheveled. There’s a Red Bull clutched in one hand and something distinctly metal in the other. Steve leans against the door and eyes it before turning his gaze to Bucky.

“We leave in two days,” Tony says evenly, looking past Steve to the man behind him. “He cleared for combat?” He asks Bucky like he fields these questions regularly.

Bucky nods, crossing his arms stiffly under his chest. “Sparred this morning. He’s right as rain.” He eyes Steve, a guarded, almost sad look in his eye.

“I have a proposition,” Tony continues, stepping into the room and gesturing toward Bucky with the long metal object in his hand. “You know Cap, we know Cap. He’s great, we need him. And I don’t know if you know this, he’s reckless as fuck.” He eyes Bucky with a look that he can’t place, and takes a step toward him. “Diving out of planes without a parachute and jumping off helicarriers; you know, the works. I can’t keep up with him anymore. I need backup. Gettin’ too old for this shit. You hunted him, you know how he works. Come with us to Russia for the mission, watch his back. Make sure we all come home safe.”

Steve thinks Tony missed his calling as an Army recruiter. He’s staring Bucky down, the two men would be nose to nose if not for the apparatus Tony clutches between them. Tony’s eyes twitch, lips slightly pursed. Bucky wears the mask of the Winter Soldier, his features schooled calm and impassive.

“But if you lose your focus for one second, put one of us in the line of fire, I’ll take you out myself. No questions asked.”

Tony suddenly juts out the object, which at closer glance, Steve realizes is a brand new metal arm. Its fingers stand outstretched toward Bucky like an extended handshake.

 

“What do you say, Barnes? Truce?”


End file.
